


my dear

by sterlingsparrow



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 5+1 Things, But also, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 19:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18581473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sterlingsparrow/pseuds/sterlingsparrow
Summary: Five times Valjean called Javert 'my dear', & one time Javert called Valjean 'my dear'.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> warning: there's references to javert's suicide in here; not too much but just an fyi!

The first time, they are in the garden at Rue Plumet. It is the height of summer, the days scorching, and Valjean has been fussing over his plants. Javert watches lazily from a spot in the shade.

“Come out of the sun, Valjean,” he calls. “The garden can wait.”

Valjean looks at him with an expression of disbelief. “It will die without my help! Plants were not made to live in this heat, surely. Give me a moment longer & I shall join you.”

Javert nods. There is nothing he can deny Jean Valjean.

At last, Valjean joins him. He fusses with the collar of his white shirt, calloused fingers fumbling over the buttons. “What do you plan for us to do now that we are in the shade?”

Javert frowns. “I’m not quite sure,” he confesses. “Perhaps be idle for a moment.”

“I have made you idle in the last year,” Valjean says, chucking. Javert turns to him, about to deliver a sharp retort, but the words die on his tongue. Valjean has undone his shirt’s top two buttons to reveal a patch ofskin, and Javert finds himself unable to tear his eyes away from that tanned triangle.

“Are you all right?”

He drops his gaze to the ground between them. “You are a good friend, Valjean,” Javert says lamely. It is not a lie, but it is not what he wants to say either.

“And you as well,” Valjean murmurs. Abruptly, he takes Javert’s hand in his own, and Javert looks up at him. The man’s face is creased in a smile.

“You have dirt on your face,” Javert mumbles, attempting to sound unbothered. He leans forward to wipe it away with a thumb.

Perhaps it is then that Valjean leans forward as well. Or perhaps Javert leans forward a little too far. In any case, their lips meet, and for a moment Javert is too shocked to pull away and mutter apologies. Then Valjean is cupping his face in his hands, and some distant part of him understands that pulling away would only hurt both of them.

It is an awkward thing, more a collision of mouths and teeth than anything else. The two of them part at the same time, though it’s too soon for Javert’s taste.

“We’re rather inept at this, my dear, aren’t we?” Valjean says with a laugh. “We must practice.”

Javert is still too dazed to protest the use of _my dear_. He lets the words pass by. The only thing he can actually manage, he finds, is to lean forward and kiss Valjean again.

 

The second time is months afterward. This time, they are sitting in Valjean’s library. There is a book in Valjean’s lap, and he runs his finger beneath each line, trying to help Javert make sense of the words.

It is not that Javert is illiterate; his mother taught him to read when he was young. But the letters have always swum before him on the page in a way that should be impossible, and it hurts his head after too long. It is easier with Valjean’s hand to guide him.

The thought occurs to Javert that he has recently earned a pardon for Valjean; a document that will clear his name and allow him to live publicly as _Jean Valjean_ for the first time in decades. All that is needed is Valjean’s own signature. Javert mentions this in an offhand way, as one would mention an interesting article in the newspaper.

Valjean’s hand stills on the page.

“Really?” he asks, voice trembling, and Javert gives a nod.

The book falls to the floor, for Valjean has leapt forward and his very broad arms are wrapped around Javert. Valjean presses his face to his chest, white hair tickling Javert’s chin.

“Thank you,” he whispers. It is slightly muffled. “Javert, I… _thank you_.”

“Of course,” Javert mumbles. He smoothes Valjean’s hair rather awkwardly, and then the man pulls back.

Javert has only a moment to mourn the loos of the embrace before Valjean is cupping his face, eyes sparkling with tears.

“Thank you, my dear,” he says quietly. He presses a quick kiss to Javert’s lips.

The happiness is plain to see in his face. To correct his use of _my dear_ would simply ruin it, and Javert cannot bring himself to do so. _Next time_ , he resolves, _I will speak to him_.

 

As it turns out, he hasn’t a chance to do so the next time.

The third time is at a ridiculous event Monsieur Gillenormand has insisted on throwing, to celebrate the pardon. _Valjean_ has insisted on Javert’s presence.

“This is ridiculous,” Javert mutters to him halfway through the night. “I do not belong at an event like this, and certainly not one held in your honor.”

Valjean pats his back. “I want you here. Is that not reason enough? Besides, this entire affair is ridiculous. A party for a pardon… it was not my idea. Though you must know that.”

“He’s showing off.”

Valjean takes a drink to hide his smile, and Javert feels an inexplicable sense of _pride_ at having caused that smile. It is a new feeling, one he finds he enjoys.

It is not until late in the evening that Gillenormand persuades Valjean to speak to the guests. He stands up timidly, waiting for the crowd to settle on its own, until finally Cosette whispers in his ear and Valjean hits his fork against his glass lightly.

“I, ah…” Valjean colors, looking at his hands. “Monsieur Gillenormand has convinced me to speak to you, although anyone who knows me knows I am not one for public speaking. I am Jean Valjean, you see. This event has been held in my honor.”

He looks up at last, though he still fiddles with his cuffs. “I must thank all of you for attending tonight. And I especially must thank my _dearest_ friend, Inspector Javert. He is the one responsible for the pardon itself.”

He meets Javert’s gaze as he says _my dearest friend_. The look in Valjean’s eyes says, _if iI could call you_ my dear _in front of everyone in this room, I would._

The thought stirs an emotion in Javert which he does not wish to name. instead, he nods in Valjean’s direction with the gentlest smile he can manage.

He can hardly reprimand Valjean for calling him _my dear,_ in front of everyone. Such a thing would likely reveal the nature of their relationship, and men have been ruined for such. It is not an idea Javert particularly likes. __

He makes a mental note to tell the man after the event has ended. However, Valjean grabs him by the cravat almost as soon as they step inside their home, pulling Javert down, and the opportunity evades him.

 

The fourth time is after one of his _episodes_ , as Javert refers to them, though he rarely does. They are not something one likes to think about.

He is loathe to admit it, but there are still things that inspire fear and hopelessness and more in him, even almost two years after the Seine. What makes it infuriating is that they are _simple_ things, like the sound of running water or water around his ankles. It is still difficult to walk on or past bridges.

Especially the Pont au Change.

Javert cannot say what caused this particular _episode_ , or even much of what happens. All he remembers is that it began in the kitchen, and he ends sprawled on the settee in the library. Javert is trembling and there are tear tracks on his face.

Valjean kneels on the floor beside him, a hand running through his hair.

“I am so sorry,” he says softly. “I’m no stranger to these things myself, reminders of a time you’d rather forget. It’s hell. If there is anything I can do, to help…”

Javert takes a shuddering breath. “Stay with me.”

It was Valjean who dragged him from that river, Valjean who had fetched a doctor and tended to him for months on end, even when Javert pleaded to be allowed to end everything. He still pleads, sometimes.

Perhaps if Valjean stays, this nightmare will end.

Javert has a nagging suspicion that the nightmare will never leave him, just as Valjean’s never will. With Valjean it will be made bearable at least.

“Stay with me,” he says again. Valjean wipes tears from his face.

“Of course I will, my dear,” he whispers, and Javert feels tears well in his eyes once more.

 

The fifth time, they are in the kitchen. Javert is peeling apples, for it is something to do, and Valjean tells of his most recent visit to Cosette.

“She shall have a little one soon,” he says excitedly, tapping his feet against his chair. “The doctor says it is only a few months yet. They have already picked out names; Fantine or Madeleine if it is a girl, and Jean or Georges if a boy.”

“Madeleine?” Javert asks, raising his eyebrows. Valjean’s mouth twists.

“Cosette knows, of course. I told her that a little child named Madeleine would simply be a reminder of a man who should remained buried, but she didn’t listen. Cosette has no fear; it makes sense that she does not fear the ghosts of the past. She prefers Fantine, anyway.”

“As if naming her daughter _Fantine_ would not be a reminder of the past,” Javert snorts. He sets a plate of sliced apples before Valjean, but the man hesitates before taking any.

“Would she truly be such a terrible ghost?” he asks.

“I killed her, Jean. It was an accident, but…” Javert shrugs. “I killed her all the same.”

Valjean looks at him thoughtfully. “Do you…?”

“Regret it? Yes. I had quite a lot of time to think when my ribs were healing, don’t you remember? And—and that night, as well.” He reaches for an apple slice. “I regret her death, that she did not see Cosette ever again, and that I was the one who robbed her of life.”

Valjean is quiet for a long moment. Javert stares at him, apprehensive.

“You have changed,” Valjean says at last. “In your very heart. It makes me glad; you are the better for it.”

“Am I?”

He laughs. “Of course! I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.”

“You have said plenty of things that are untrue,” Javert muses, and it is Valjean’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“What, as though you are so honest.”

“I have told exactly one lie in my life, to you of all people. ‘I will wait for you here.’”

Valjean sighs. “You have the upper hand in honesty, then,” he says. He picks up some apple. “Let us talk of simpler things, my dear. Like Cosette and her child, or whether or not you will allow my to feed you this apple slice.”

“You are ridiculous, Jean,” Javert says, face heating. Valjean beams.


	2. Chapter 2

They are in bed, rain beating a steady rhythm on the roof. Valjean has flown an arm across Javert’s chest in sleep, but Javert himself is awake. His eyes are closed even so.He listens to the rain, to Valjean’s steady breath. His arm is warm, and Javert intertwines their fingers blindly.

He is not quite sure what time it is. It does not matter, for he is in bed with Jean Valjean and that is all that matters. Javert can feel his mind slipping to the clutches of sleep, even so. He wills himself to stay awake just for a moment more.

Abruptly, Valjean shudders. He rips himself away, tugging his hand from Javert’s, and then his warmth is gone. Javert’s eyes snap open.

Valjean is curled in on himself, his chest heaving. He has curled his arms over the back of his neck.

“Jean,” Javert whispers. He touches Valjean’s shoulder tentatively. “Jean?”

When Valjean looks up at him, it is with the wild look of a rabbit caught by the hound. It is not with a man’s look, and Javert’s heart pounds.

“It is only me, Jean,” he says as softly as possible. “Javert. You’re safe.”

“Javert,” Valjean gasps. “You--you’re that guard, the young one—“

“I was. Not anymore. It is 1834, Jean. You’re safe in bed in Paris, I promise you; you’e in Toulon no longer.”

“Paris,” he repeats.

Javert nods. “Yes. And I—I’m not a guard, anymore. I am your dear, and I will not hurt you. I love you.”

It is at these words that Valjean’s expression clears at last, turning from panic to sorrow in an instant. He slumps forward, head against Javert’s shoulder.

Valjean’s voice is a muffled sob. “I dreamt I was in Toulon—“

“I know,” Javert says quietly. Valjean clutches at him, and he brings his arms around the man’s back.

“—I was being lashed again, and I could hardly see anything through the pain and— _could you not touch there_ —“

He freezes, fingers over the long scars on Valjean’s back. Javert drops his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. He entwines his fingers in Valjean’s hair instead. “I didn’t even realize I was touching them; I’m sorry.”

Valjean gives a sob in response. He shifts his head so that it lies in the crook of Javert’s neck, and the tears on his face soak through Javert’s nightshirt.

“I could see them,” Valjean says softly. “The little ones, all seven. I—I have not seen them in so long, Javert, I…”

His voice breaks. He begins to sob once more, and Javert can do nothing but hold him and stroke his hair. He was at Toulon, yes, but he was not _there_. Not in the way that Valjean was.

At last, Valjean seems to give way to exhaustion, slumping against Javert’s form.

“I don’t want to go back to sleep,” he whispers. “It is the only thing I ever see, it seems. Toulon.”

“i know.” Javert hesitates. “The Seine is the only thing I ever see to see, sometimes.”

“I’m sorry.”

He gives a shrug. “It’s hardly the same, Jean. You… you survived nineteen _years_ ; I do not know how you did it, I…”

“Can we not speak of it anymore?”

Javert presses a kiss to his forehead “Certainly.”

They are silent for a while longer. Finally, Javert pushes valjean off him somewhat, though he still holds him. Valjean’s face is tearstained even in the moonlight.

“How about this,” Javert says softly. “We will try to sleep again. I will hold you, this time. In the morning, we will go visit Cosette and her ninny of a husband and their little daughter. But for now, we will simply try to sleep. Is that all right?”

“All right,” Valjean whispers.

They lay down together, and Valjean fits so perfectly in his arms Javert almost wonders if that was where the man was meant to be.

He kisses Valjean’s forehead again. “Good night, my dear. I love you.”

“I love you,” Valjean murmurs.

Javert holds him close, and listens to his breathing and the rain.


End file.
